From Anastasia to Home

Ocean midst drips on everything,
to old growth oaks, to stubby pines,
bay laurel and tree ferns, all weighed down and ready to perk back up;
It's not much different than our second trip to Maine and our departing day from the stormy Cape:
All things can glisten with new dimensional perspective,
reflect old points of happiness and then trail off in different ways.

With a lonely Floridian cold,
each turn hangs with little spanish moss,
hangs like neverending waves,
rolling white sand dunes and sparsely scattered beach grass swaying with the wind:
In whatever distance we create,
there remains our lifelines,
our escapes inside each other,
our fordged renewal and compromise -
An unrelenting balance of universal tow, speed-up and slow-down;

Here, from tinges of sadness, to footsteps facing conflicting directions,
from scattered sea shells and waves of reflection,
from Anastasia to home,
There's still a huge a part of you that will always be with me.